The Naturals
by albatrossfallen
Summary: The story of John Miller, a Ph.D. candidate in Religious History, who attempts to reconstruct the everyday lives of St. Dean and St. Sam Winchester, as well as the angel Castiel. As the investigation develops, supernatural events begin to arise, and John finds himself right in the middle of a Biblical love story that has stretched for 200 years.


"The Naturals: A Complete Account of the Supernatural Lives of Sts. Dean and Samuel Winchester and Castiel the Angel.

Author's Note:

(REMEMBER TO WRITE THIS WHEN FINISHED)

Abstract:

In the past, historical analyses of Team Free Will have largely relied on the Gospel of the Winchesters[1], or, to use the name of its time, the Supernatural series [3, 6, 19]. The lives and deaths of the three religious figures-that is, St. Dean Winchester, St. Sam Winchester, and the angel Castiel-are only known to us through a half-finished series intended, at that time, to entertain a primarily adolescent reader population. Other primary or secondary evidence have been completely lacking. Furthermore, the credibility of Carver Edlund (a pseudonym used by the prophet Chuck Shurley in all his publications), is crippled by the prophet's excessive alcohol consumption and mid-life melancholy. This artile attempts to unveil some of the lesser known aspects of the St. Winchesters' journey, and their Biblical involvement with the companion angel, Castiel.

Introduction:"

I stare at the computer screen and find myself unable to think of any other fluff that I can add onto this pile of junk. I knew I should not have chosen such an absurdly gargantuant-arrogant, even-topic for my Ph.D. thesis. Professor Bauer's enthusiasm is notorious for luring people into insane projects, and I should have listened to Jenny and did my thesis on more...substanced topics.

I stand up, jingle my hands a little bit-they have grown numb from the intensive literature review I've been doing for the past 3 hours-and pick up my jacket from the floor. Regardless of my complaints, it's way too late for me to pull out of this mess now, so there's no point in wasting time. I take my keys and start to head out.

The air outside is chilly, but mild for a November's day. Winters in Kansas aren't usually too cold-much more comfortable, actually, than those of New York, where I completed my B.A. degree. Some fallen leaves swirl on the ground, letting strokes of wind sweep them to and fro.

Just before I reach the parking lot, my phone rings.

"Hey, John, are you doing anything tonight?" Jenny asks. "It's a Saturday, man, you should have some fun once in a while. Lizzy and I are heading to a bar downtown at around 9, care to join?"

"No, thanks. I'm heading to The Library right now. I have some research about Human-Cas to do. Did you know that there are at least sixty-three alleged pseudonyms on record that Human-Cas might've used during- "

"Wow, you're really going for it?"

"Yeah, I suppose. Let's hope I don't die of exhaustion by the end of this year or so," I say as I open the door to my car. "I got to go for now. I'll see you Monday at the Academy?"

"Yup. See you then. Lizzy and I will drink to your misery tonight."

I have noted several passages on the Gospel of the Winchesters that may enable me to locate precisely the geographical situations that some of the Biblical events took place. There aren't many-Prophet Shurley's words have been editted and altered over the course of the past two centuries, and exactness is a luxury for texts of such extensive alterations. And that's just the published version. The unpublished versions, my God, are the worst nightmares of all. Badly written and in such abundance as to comprise of roughly 88% of the Tom Baller Archive and Archive Alpha-Omega-3, they are the intellectual battlefields on which Winchester scholars bathe in the blood of each other.

Fortunately, Professor Bauer has given me a list of the more convincing works. They contain impressive amounts of details and seem to have survived from natural erosion. Fortunately, some of the details do converge among different works, lending them some more credibility. One such trail-the one I seek now in The Library-is the account of Human-Castiel, and his brief stay at a chain patrolleum station in Rexford, Kansas.

"Hi, hello," I tap the shoulder of a Courtesy Node and say. "I would like to look for a list of all chain patrolleum stations in the state of Kansas, and cross reference the result to all towns that have names phonologically similar to Rexford, please. Also, limit the search to between year 1990 to 2050, please."

"Welcome, I am Courtesy Node seven two three slash beta. Please enjoy the Library, and respect the personal access codes of all readers. Your request is being processed."

The Library is particularly empty-which is only natural on a Saturday afternoon. Sunlight pours down from the giant windows, and the marble floor of the Grand Hall looks stunning as ever. Several Courtesy Nodes stand scattered across the hall, and yet many more await readers' inquiries in the shadows of the countless bookshelves contained within the entire Library.

"Your request has resulted in: three hundred and forty-five matches. Would you like to have it uploaded to your personal archive, or would you like to have it recorded in physical form?"

"Physical form, thank you."

"Your request is being processed. Please, have a very pleasant rest of your day."

I take the long document along with me, and head to the study room. This will take at least a day or so to cross-reference with the unpublished works. I push open the heavy, wooden door, and find myself a comfortable seat by the fireplace.

Right as I sit down, however, a sudden frequency makes itself present in the room. The few people who also happen to be in the room start to look around, curious as to what's happening. But as the noise intensifies, looks of agony begin to show on their faces, untill everyone is screaming aloud, covering their ears, and trying to find shelter.

I sit amidst all this chaos, startled and confused, but the noise is muffled in my ears, not nearly as destructive as the scene suggests. What the hell is going on?

The frequency yet intensifies, until it reaches a climax, and as someone's mug explodes, a quiet voice is heard inside my head.

"Number twenty-two."

All turn silent then.

The police investigation took about an hour. Seeing that the incident was probably the result of a faulty PA circuit, they let us leave as soon as the injured were documented and taken care of. No real harm was done-although, apparently, the mug that exploded was particularly expensive. Or so the owner claimed as he requested compensation, of course.

The night has yet begun when I arrive home with the long list of possible stations stored safely in a folder. I sit down at my desk, and begin studying each.

They are mostly generic titles typical of that era-Shell, Circle K, Gas City, Irving Oil, et cetera. All boring titles that seem to have little to do with Castiel. I study each anyway, researching on my personal archive patch to the Library. It's rudimentary, but should do the job for preliminary elimination.

My interest is sparked when I reach number twenty-two. It's a small filling station at Rexford, Kansas. It fits precisely with the majority of the historical accounts. It's got a small supply store selling snacks and such disgusting foods, again, typical of that era.

This is what the voice had said earlier, too. Number Twenty-two. Gas n' Sip.

I pull up the current location of the station on the archive patch. It is now an apartment complex, housing roughly four hundred people in total. I jot down the address, pick up the phone and book a room in a motel nearby, and prepare for tomorrow's fieldwork.

As it turned out, Rexford isn't very far at all, and though the town is, admittedly, a bit rural, it's still comfortable and not completely forsaken.

I arrive at the town at around noon, having left home at nine. What would be a grilling sun during summer now hangs above the sky as a source of warmth in November. People were walking around, as people in small towns tend to do, and don't look very busy at all.

The complex is a little difficult to find, but I manage with the help of my car's mapping device. It is moderately sized, hosting three buildings, roughly thirty floors each. Automated guards patrol the building, though I doubt that they would be of as much use in combat as they are right now as placebo.

I look around, and see a human guard-an old black man-sitting in the lobby's reception. I walk towards him with my notepad activated.

"Hi, there," I greet him with a smile.

"Hi. Do you have your ID with you?" He asks without looking up. I can see that he's reading some book, the title of which is blocked by his thumb.

"Actually, I'm not here to visit. I was wondering if you could tell me a bit about the history of this building-"

"What? 'S a normal apartment. Not much history, if you ask me." The guard raises his head and takes a suspicious glance at me, then resumes reading. "'nless you count college students nosing around as history. We get plenty of those."

"You get college students coming here a lot? Why's that?" I ask, trying to stall as much as possible.

"Ain't none of your business," he raises an eyebrow and looks again at me.

"John. John Miller," I answer. "And what's your name again?"

"Bobby. As I say, ain't none of your business, Mr. Miller."

I shift my weight a little bit.

"Well, Bobby, I'm writing a doctorate paper about the history of the St. Winchesters-"

"What? The Winchesters?" Bobby seems surprised by that, and puts the book aside. I notice that it is an old copy of the Gospel of the Winchesters.

"Yes. I see you're also interested in them," I point at the book.

"I read the Bible everyday ever since my momma got me this copy," Bobby takes the book and presents it to me. "You kids these days can really use some Bible reading, if you ask me."

I grin at that remark, and he quickly realizes that that's exactly what I'm doing here. "What business does this apartment have with the saints, anyway?"

"I think it might be where the angel Castiel-" Bobby mutters a prayer under his breath, most likely I Shall Wait "-had stayed briefly when he became human, right after the False God's reign began."

"That some unpublished stuff you talkin', boy?"

I look at him, trying to find a trace of disapproval on his face. The divide between the published and unpublished accounts of Prophet Edlund is huge not just among the scholars, but among the religious commonpeople as well. It is not unusual to see family members argue over the validity of the unpublished works, nor is it surprising that the dispute should evolve into long, long feuds.

Bobby stares at me intensely, then bursts out laughing. He pulls out a copy of the Anthology of Select Unpublished Work by Carver Edlund, edited by Brittany Bauer. Relieved and embarrassed, I chuckle along.

"That's actually written by my professor," I point out. "Professor Bauer is a very nice lady. Incredibly intelligent."

"Yeah?" Bobby says, mildly intrigued. "Well, I still got no idea what you're here for. This apartment's been around for a while, but there's no way it's...Biblical."

"Well, is there no historical hard drive stored?" I ask. The Federal government has issued a law in the late 2120's that requires each building to maintain an automatic record of every transaction that has ever taken place within the structure.

"Yeah, 'fcourse we do. It's, well, it's in the basement," Bobby says with visible hesitation.

"Why, what's the matter?"

"That what the college kids keep coming here for, boy," Bobby mutters another prayer to himself. "I tell you, best not go into that basement wandering 'round."

"I would be very grateful if you could point me there, sir." I say as I pull out my ID and hand it to him. "You can have my ID as collateral. I promise I won't fiddle with anything unnecessary."

Bobby frowns at the ID, but, eventually, he shakes his head and takes it. "I'm telling you, boy. Place ain't right. There're cold spots and some odd noises. Sinister stuff."

I look at him, unsure as to what the appropriate response may be. Bobby's clearly the religious type, and some superstition is completely within the realm of reasonable attributes.

"I ain't kidding, boy. College students keep comin', saying it's some supernatural crap-excuse my language-and nosing around tryin' to investigate," he says, scoffing at the last word.

"Well, I do have the Gospel with me," I say as I pull out my own copy from my bag. "Should keep the vampires away, right?"

"I suppose. Still, be careful, John," Bobby says, then points to a stairwell at his right. "Two floors down, get out, and walk straight ahead. You'll see a blue door on your right."

"Thanks, Bobby," I say, already walking towards the stairs.

The room was clearly designed to be a storage when the complex was first built, but now all shelves and boxes are emptied, and only the storage machine, imobile as it is, remains. The lighting is poor, rays of artifical brightness dim and cold, bouncing weakly among the metal shelves' shimmer.

It isn't nearly as haunted as Bobby warned me of. Of course, being the abandoned basement room that it is, the room is a bit cold, but that is only normal in November. It is also rather quiet, save for the beeping sound that the automatic record machine makes every few seconds.

I walk towards the screen, which glows silently under the faint light. My footsteps echo in the empty room, amplifying, unnerving. I look around, and grow suddenly unsure of this entire thing. Perhaps I can just call the history of this apartment up through The Library-but of course I can't. There will be too many formalities to go through to access such information. In fact, I was lucky that Bobby had let me in without much trouble. He probably thinks that the records aren't that big of a deal. I don't think they are either, but the government has its rules.

I step in front of the monitor, looking for an interface. The machine is at least sixty years old, and has no voice recognition installed. I doubt it's even got an audio input device on it. After several minutes of trial and error, I realize that it is activated through touch. Pretty advanced for its day.

I pull out my notepad, which has been on and recording my entire interaction with Bobby, and access my personal archive. I play with the record machine for a little bit, trying to find out how to connect my archive patch to the database at hand. Old technologies require a special maneuvering to be decoded and downloaded. It usually takes a while.

I stand there, quickly glancing through lists and lists of yearly transactions. Unpaid rents, witheld collaterals, debts and credits, all of them are recorded on this machine. Of course, as a third party who is without the administrative access codes, I cannot access the details of these transactions. That does not matter, anyway. As more and more data flicker on and off the screen, I approach quickly to the building's earliest days.

A loud screeching noise startles me.

I immediately look back, realizing that the door has been shut without any sound, whatsoever. I blink a few times and breathe deeply, trying to calm myself down, but to no avail. The cold air hurts my nostrils.

I notice that the room has become unnaturally cold. Freezing, even. Air comes out of my mouth and becomes white fogs, and my fingers are beginning to hurt. The screech appears again, this time even louder. I disconnect my notepad and hurry to the door and try to escape, but the door is completely jammed and does not move at all.

Behind my back, the record machine is still making the beeping noise. I start banging the door as panic engulfs me. The desperate desire to exit is beginning to cloud my consciousness, and a coldness creeps up from my feet towards my head.

I look behind out of reflex, and see a woman sobbing.

Fear overcomes my mind. I begin to pounce on the door, cursing and praying. Behind my back, the woman continues to sob, completley unbothered by my beating the door. I steal a glance at her, and notice that she is nearing me without moving her feet at all.

"My baby...my poor, poor baby," she cries. "But the medicine should've worked, it should have worked."

Her face begins to shift from sorrow to fury, and she makes a shriek so loud the entire room shrivels in resonance.

"You cursed my baby! I trusted you, but you cursed my baby!"

Just as she raises her hands and tries to reach me, the door suddenly opens, revealing Bobby standing outside. His face is blank, but his eyes have become a stunning, frigid blue.

"John Miller, you are saved," he says in a much deeper tone that what he sounded like but half an hour ago. Bobby pulls me out of the room and shuts the door in a quick thrust.

I sit on the floor, panting and still in shock. Bobby is no better, however. Right after he pulled me out, the blue in his eyes faded into the dark brown they were before,

"Oh, my Lord. He is come..." Bobby says to himself, then starts praying aloud, awe and conviction brightly radiating on his face. "I shall wait here, then, 'till time is ripe. Rest, now, and I shall wait..."

I try to ask him if he's okay, but fear and anxiety still clouds my judgment. After several attempts at pulling him out of the basement, I simply let him kneel there, pious as a sinner in the face of God.

"I shall wait here, then, 'till time is ripe. Thou hath raised me from perdition, to make me ammunition..."

Bobby's voice still echoes in the hall as the elevator closes, bringing me back to the surface, back under the light of day.

"Introduction:

Many have posited that the overlap between historical events and events described in the Gospel of the Winchesters are attempts from early civilizations to explain the seemingly impossible in mythological terms[2,4,20,50] (e.g. the unexplained meteor shower in the early 2000's that, according to several editions of the unpublished works of Prophet Edlund, was realy the Fall of the Angels). However, seeing as documents have been discovered belonging to the pre-World Federal Government era that accurately describe many of the large-scale events in coherent and scientifically sound terms, it has been offered, too, as an alternative explanation, that the prophet Edlund has simply written these accounts as an intentional romanticization of present events.

This paper will not only cover the everyday lives of Sts. Dean and Sam Winchester and the angel Castiel, but will also attempt to find out the amount of truth behind the mythology of the Gospel of the Winchesters. It seems very unlikely that a work of simple fiction should become the first addition into the Bible for more than a thousand years, if it does not, in fact, carry some weight of truth. In the Fifth Declaration of the Catholic Church in Conjunction with Delegates from Her Abrahamic Brethrens, Pope Samuel IV has gone through extensive effort in 'making it known unto Earth and all of God's Domains...Heaven, Earth, Hell, Purgatory, Faerland, Emeraldfield, and all worlds alike...that the Gospel of the Winchesters are, indeed and word-for-word, True, and all accounts found therein demand faithful conviction to be taken, quite literally, literally' [20, 43]. The author of this paper will inspect this exceptional sincerity in the fundamentalistic embracement of the Gospel of the Winchesters. The author believes that through the reconstruction of the Winchesters' hunter lifestyle, their daily activities can also be reconstructed."

The motel I booked is quite small, but satisfactory for just one night. I was still in the aftershock of the events earlier today when I checked in, and the kid who signed me was eyeing me oddly for it.

Regardless, I am safe now, and a good night's sleep should do me well. Before going to sleep, however, I make sure to type up at least a few paragraphs, so as to not fall behind my writing schedule. I begin to ponder the possibility of including some primary evidence from the recordings of my notepad.

Ultimately, I decide against it. It's ridiculous enough that I should be hunting for traces of Biblical events for my doctoral thesis. I do not want to be ridiculed by the ruthless scholars out there, who will most likely destroy any possibility of a career for my future upon seeing an article that attempts to prove the existence of the supernatural.

I read up on some texts from the Gospel of the Winchesters, however. The evidence that I have collected today is not nearly enough. I need more dates, more solid data to really dig into the realities of the mythical angel Castiel. I used to think that he was but a deified man, a sort of cult leader with impressive skills in martial arts. After today's events, plus the odd encountering at The Library, I begin to doubt this secular conviction.

I make sure to take notes of the ways St. Dean Winchester used to gank ghosts.

Iron, salt, and fire.

I find myself craving yet more sleep upon waking the next morning. However, I have only enough money to spare for one night's stay in the motel, and late check-out is unethically expensive.

So I grudgingly shower, and activate the notepad to search for the nearest grocery store.

When I have finished buying all the equipments necessary, I nervously revisit the apartment complex. Bobby is not on shift today-perhaps he has taken leave for rest, or perhaps he simply does not work Sundays. Judging from his religious nature, the latter would not be surprising at all.

In fact, I find myself a little tempted in visiting a nearby church myself.

Aware that I might not be so lucky as to talk my way into the basement this time round, I sit quietly in my car, waiting for the guard to leave for the restroom. After roughly an hour or so, she does, and I walk into the building with just enough haste as to look confident, but nonetheless swift.

The room is every bit as normal as it first seemed yesterday, but I know for certain that the woman's ghost still resides within. According to the Gospel of the Winchesters, ghosts are usually bound to either their past dwellings or objects that were of significance to them before death. There is very little that remains in the room, so I suspect that she may simply be bound by the geographical location itself. Thus, I have only prepared to ward myself against her, and attack when I must, for enough time to download the history file.

I breathe deeply several times, then walk into the room, straight towards the record machine.

Immediately, the room becomes freezing cold, and my breath becomes white and clouds my vision. I am practically running now, aiming for the blue, artificial light emitted from the monitor screen of the machine.

"My baby...poor baby..." I can hear whispers behind me, and motions around my periphery. Just a few steps away from my goal now, I pull out a long, iron bar, and swing it all around.

It works. The sobbing stops.

The moment I reach the machine, I swiftly connect my notepad with the machine, and pull out a huge can of kosher salt. I did not know if it made a difference whether it was kosher, but I figured it carries more religious potency.

I begin to draw a semicircle that encloses me around the machine and the wall. Frost has creeped up everywhere, covering the empty shelves and the ceiling alike. I look up just in time to see that the cold has taken the lightbulb, and it shatters in a bright explosion. Then came darkness, only lit by the glow of the monitor.

I finish the protective circle just in time. As I stand, the woman has appeared in front of me, shrieking and trying to attack, though her talons burn when they cross the salt line.

"Excuse me, miss-" maintaining as much composure as I can, I pull up the iron bar, and swing it with as much might as I can "-I have a Goddamn paper to fucking finish."

She poofs into ashes, then reconjures herself back into form. I hit her again, and again, and again. Eventually, she gives up, and stares at me with as much hatred as one can possibly imagine.

"My poor baby...poor baby, died of the fever...my poor, poor baby girl," she begins to growl these words as if they were a curse. Startled by this possibility, I begin to recite I Shall Wait. The memory of Bobby opening the door with blue, blue flames dancing in his eyes makes itself present in my mind.

I keep a cautious watch on her as the notepad loads behind my back. I have installed a handy patch-tool last night that allows the notepad to download archaic data forms automatically. The catch is that it takes a fairly long time to translate-with the amount of data that I need, it would be about ten minutes after that I can leave the room.

Crap, I have to leave the room. How do I leave, now that she's staying in the middle of the it? I had expected her to disappear for a while-I have underestimated her power. She must be an old one. According to the Gospel of the Winchesters, spirits gained power through madness over time.

I begin to eye my environment. The first time I was in the room, I expected no danger, and so did not pay much attention at all. Now that my survival entirely depends on it, I have realized that the shelves are not secured against the floor. In fact, if I wanted to, I think I can strike down one, and create a domino of metal shelves that reaches all the way to the exit. If the metal has at least some iron in it, good for me. If it doesn't...

There's simply no room for such thoughts.

I maintain my gaze on the spirit, stealing quick glances back to check the download progress. Good, it is now half way through, and it's only been about four minutes.

"My baby...that man touched her, and she burned...oh, she burned!"

As the woman screams these words, the room's temperature drops for at least ten degrees, reaching far below zero Celsius.

"My baby, she burned! Steve, Steve, it's all Steve!"

I squint at that name. Steve? It sounds awfully similar to the Steven that the angel Castiel used as a pseudonym when he was in human form. Curiosity grows like wildfire in me, and before I can stop myself, I ask, "Steve? Who's Steve?"

"It's him, it's Steve! He offered to take care of my baby...yes, that demon...he took my baby, and left, and then the fever came," she growls and curses and shrieks. "All his fault! Oh, my poor, poor little baby girl!"

Andrenaline rushes into my bloodstreams. No, it cannot be. No fucking way. "Are you Nora?"

She looks straight into my eyes, screams, then teleports right in front of me. She tries furiously to reach me with her hands, but the salt circle remains functional.

Behind me, the notepad beeps, signaling the completion of my download.

My God. I'm about to fight against a Biblical figure.


End file.
